of yours? You don't call this wad of old patches a Mackintosh, do
you?----you don't pretend to say that worsted is water-proof?
No, my dear friend; and that was the deuce of it. Waterproof it
was not, no more than a sponge. Indeed, with such recklessness
had I bequilted my jacket, that in a rain-storm I became a
universal absorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned
against. Of a damp day, my heartless shipmates even used to stand
up against me, so powerful was the capillary attraction between
this luckless jacket of mine and all drops of moisture. I dripped
like a turkey a roasting; and long after the rain storms were
over, and the sun showed his face, I still stalked a Scotch mist;
and when it was fair weather with others, alas! it was foul
weather with me.
_Me?_ Ah me! Soaked and heavy, what a burden was that jacket to
carry about, especially when I was sent up aloft; dragging myself
up step by step, as if I were weighing the anchor. Small time
then, to strip, and wring it out in a rain, when no hanging back
or delay was permitted. No, no; up you go: fat or lean: Lambert
or Edson: never mind how much avoirdupois you might weigh. And
thus, in my own proper person, did many showers of rain reascend
toward the skies, in accordance with the natural laws.
But here be it known, that I had been terribly disappointed in
carrying out my original plan concerning this jacket. It had been
my intention to make it thoroughly impervious, by giving it a
coating of paint, But bitter fate ever overtakes us unfortunates.
So much paint had been stolen by the sailors, in daubing their
overhaul trowsers and tarpaulins, that by the time I--an
honest man--had completed my quiltings, the paint-pots were
banned, and put under strict lock and key.
Said old Brush, the captain of the _paint-room_-- "Look ye,
White-Jacket," said he, "ye can't have any paint."
Such, then, was my jacket: a well-patched, padded, and porous
one; and in a dark night, gleaming white as the White Lady of
Avenel!
CHAPTER II.
HOMEWARD BOUND.
"All hands up anchor! Man the capstan!"
"High die! my lads, we're homeward bound!"
Homeward bound!--harmonious sound! Were you _ever_ homeward
bound?--No?--Quick! take the wings of the morning, or the sails
of a ship, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth. There,
tarry a year or two; and then let the gruffest of boatswains, his
lungs all goose-skin, shout forth those magical words, and you'll
swear "the harp of Orpheus were not more enchanting."
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